


The Trouble with Marriage

by Zenaga



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Slight dubcon in parts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-26 21:52:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1703825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zenaga/pseuds/Zenaga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her husband is kind to her, but Sansa finds that she's not happily settled in her marriage, as of yet. Intimacy is such a difficult thing to grapple with...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Trouble with Marriage

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt for this was "Marriage AU, set in King's Landing". I hope you like it, anon!

A gentle breeze blew in through the window, the summer air playing softly with the delicate fabric of the curtains, the movement mesmerizing. Sansa watched them, fixated as she sat in solitude. The late morning air was hot, a relic of the rapidly vanishing summer. The sun filtered in through the window, warming her beyond comfort, but she did not move. She simply sat, suffering in silence as she had learned to do. There were birds outside, fluttering around, chirping. She liked the birds, although they admittedly made her sad. They acted as a reminder both of the fact that she was without a flock of her own, and for the fact that she spent many of her days confined to her room, not unlike the sort of cage that she had seen some lords and ladies keep their own pet birds in. She gnawed at her lower lip slightly. She was no pet, but there were some days that she felt as if she were. It was not that her husband was unkind - he was very kind to her, as a matter of fact. He both respected and doted upon her, making sure that she would never want for anything (except for her family, of course), but she simply had never anticipated that being married to Littlefinger would be her future. She had met him once before, at the Tourney of the Hand, but she had not known him very well. She was shocked and admittedly quite dismayed when she was informed that she would  _not_ be wed to Willas Tyrell, but rather to Petyr Baelish.

Her Lord Husband was away, as he often was during the day, and she did not go out as much as she had when she was still an unmarried woman. Queen Cersei seemed to have forgotten about Sansa entirely, a fact which the girl was silently thankful of, and Sansa did not spend as much time with Lady Margaery as she once did, as she was tired of constantly weeping in the Tyrell girl’s presence. Lady Margaery had other bigger concerns, and Sansa did not want to burden her with constantly having to deal with a stupid, teary little girl. Her eyes became blurry as she watched the curtains, and she blinked to focus them again. Her hands absent-mindedly fiddled with the jeweled belt around her waist, the linked gems feeling like chains, her breezy and beautiful room her prison. She felt confined everywhere that she went in King’s Landing, and she often wished that she had had the sense that Arya had and vanished when she had the opportunity. Things seemed to have continued to go downhill ever since King Joffrey had had her father’s head sliced clean from his shoulders, so when she thought back on it, she thought that perhaps she should have foreseen her present situation - not that it was nearly as awful as her father’s murder, of course. She shuddered at the memory of the execution, shaking her head in what almost felt like an attempt to shake the thought from her mind. She did not like dwelling on such things.

The door clicked open, interrupting her thoughts, and she whipped around in alarm, immediately calming as she recognized the man. “Good morning, Sansa,” Petyr said with a smile, closing the door behind him before crossing over to his wife. His beard tickled her cheek as he kissed her temple. Giving him a hesitant smile, she forced her tensed muscles to relax.

“Good morning, Lord Baelish,” she replied, and he let out a soft chuckle.

“How many times do I have to tell you to call me Petyr?” he asked with a smirk, pinching her cheek as a reprimand. She resisted her urge to pout. She did not like it when he acted as if she were a little girl. As much as it was not what she desired, she was his _wife_ , not the child that he might have had with her mother so many years before. The thought of her late mother felt like a stab in her gut, and she pushed the thought away as she felt tears pricking at the back of her eyes. She was alone here, without friends, save for her husband. She knew that keeping him as her ally was in her best interest, and weeping constantly was not likely to be something that Lord Baelish found endearing.

“My apologies, Petyr,” she said, looking down at her feet. Straightening, Petyr watched her, as he often did, something mysterious sparkling in his green eyes.

“It’s quite alright, sweetling. No need to apologize,” he said. “You still have many years to get it right.” As he walked toward his wardrobe, his words echoed in Sansa’s mind, chilling her. _Many years._ She pondered that, her gaze wandering over to her husband, watching him as he pulled off his doublet, the silk of his undershirt sticking to his back where he had sweat through it. It was that sort of simple detail that served as a reminder to Sansa that he was just a man, not someone to be feared more than anyone else. She nearly let out a cynical snort at that thought. The thought of him not being any more fearsome than any other man brought her little comfort, as most of the men that were in her life were either untrustworthy, ugly, unfriendly, or positively cruel - sometimes all of those traits at once. _At least Petyr is kind to me, and he’s far from ugly._ She rubbed her wrist, gnawing at her lower lip again. _And he has never threatened me, or given me reason to fear for my life._

When he began to strip off his undershirt, she blushed at the sight of his skin. He had taken to changing in front of her (perhaps in some very thinly veiled attempt to seduce her), although she usually did not watch him. He had been trying to win her favor ever since he had made a deal with the Lannisters to wed her, although his attempts had yet to bear fruit. Sansa had always envisioned herself marrying a knight or a handsome young lord, perhaps in a lovely garden, hundreds of roses in bloom. Instead, she had gotten a rushed and nearly dreary ceremony in a dusty sept, her new husband grinning smugly to himself as King Joffrey walked her to the altar, an equally smug grin on his wormy little lips. She shivered at the memory. Her wedding night had been even less pleasant, although it had ended rather abruptly when she had started crying as Petyr groped her breast, repeatedly saying under her breath that it wasn’t right. Neither of them had even gotten out of their smallclothes, but although Petyr’s eyes had been as wild as the mussed curls of his hair and she had seen the outline of his cock straining against his trousers, he had given her a chaste kiss on the forehead and rolled off of her. He had not touched her since, and he stayed on his half of the bed every night. She found it hard to look at him now, especially when he was undressed.

This time, however, she did not avert her gaze, but rather studied him with genuine curiosity. She had never seen him fully nude, but he was her husband, and she thought that surely it was natural for her to look. Had she not opted to change behind a screen every morning, she was sure that he would sneak glimpses of _her_. After all, he was not very subtle in regards to expressing his desire for her, and his gaze was positively wolfish if she ever wore anything that dipped below her collarbone. Sometimes she was unsure if she loved or loathed that desire in his eyes.

Looking at his back, she observed that he was not particularly muscular, and she thought that he must be rather average. He was lean, and if she were to use unflattering terms, she might even say a bit scrawny. He pulled a different undershirt out from the wardrobe, examining it closely for spots and flaws. His well tailored layers of clothing hid the fact that he was not much larger than Sansa, and she could not help but smile a bit at that. Her husband seemed to exercise extreme control in nearly everything that he did, but there, in those chambers, she could watch him peel back the layers, and see what lay underneath - and perhaps what lay beneath his layers of scheming and deceit was not so bad after all.

Without warning, he turned around, still examining his undershirt, and she caught sight of something that she had heard of, but never seen with her own eyes. The sight of the scar winding through the hair on his chest, down from his collarbone to his navel made her stomach turn nervously. She had known of his scar and how he had gotten it, but what she had heard paled in comparison to what she saw. Although the mark was larger than she had anticipated, it was not as ugly as she thought it might be, and in some ways, she thought that it suited him. Nonetheless, she was sad that he had it, although she found it difficult to pinpoint the reason why. Was it because it was a relic of how much he loved her mother? Was it because of the pain that he had endured? She had no answer, but she did know that she had an undeniable urge to run her fingers over the gnarled flesh.

“Like what you see?” Sansa jumped, her eyes immediately moving upward to catch Petyr’s amused gaze. She was not sure what he found funny, but there was something else in the way that he was looking at her, something almost… shy.

“O-of course not, I was just-” she stuttered, but stopped when she unexpectedly saw his expression falter, his smirk fade. She felt a lurch in her gut, realizing how he had interpreted her words. “I don’t mean… I wasn’t…” she said, trying to find the right words. “I meant your _scar_ ,” she explained, and Petyr looked down at his chest with a look that almost seemed to say that he had forgotten it was there.

“Ah, yes. That.” There was a look of disgust on his face, and he pulled on the fresh undershirt, buttoning it up quickly. Sansa at once felt guilty, any irritation that she felt with him instantly vanishing, and she stared at her feet as he slipped back on his doublet and buttoned it as well. “I have more business to attend to today, but I will be back in the evening to dine with you,” he said, his voice lacking the amused tone that it almost always had. She was internally searching for something - _anything_ \- to say to at least try to make it right. He might not have been her first choice, but she could not stand the thought that he would go about rest of his day being cross with her, thinking that she found him to be ugly, disfigured, undesirable. He swiftly crossed to the door, and when his hand was nearly upon the handle, Sansa spoke up.

“Wait,” she said, standing. He watched her curiously as she approached him. She stopped before him, blue eyes gazing into his nervously before she silently placed her hands on both sides of his face and leaned in to kiss him. As soon as he realized her intent, he wrapped his hands around her waist, pulling her closer. She let out a short breath of air, closing her eyes as she awkwardly bridged the gap between them. They had not kissed since their wedding night, due to her flinching away from him every time he drew near to her. Eventually, he had stopped trying. When their lips met then however, he kissed her with the feverish ardor that she remembered from their wedding night, and she felt her cheeks flush. As his lips moved against hers, she felt a knot unravel strangely in her belly, a feeling that was somehow both unpleasant and pleasurable. Unwittingly, she let out a small moan against his mouth. His beard tickled against her jaw, but she did not mind it, as she found that something inside her felt right at last. Her lips felt clumsy as they moved against his, but he did not seem bothered, judging from the way that he pulled her body flush against his, and the way that his teeth gently bit into her lower lip. She was about slide her tongue against his lips when he broke the kiss, nearly grinning as he pulled away. “Well,” he said in a near-purr, his eyes hooded. “That was rather unexpected.” She looked down at the ground, blushing.

“Yes, I suppose it was,” she agreed softly. Leaning back in, Petyr gave her a brief peck on the lips before releasing her. “I will see you this evening, Sansa.” With that, he opened the door and slipped out into the hall, pulling the door shut behind him. She stared at the door, both anticipating and dreading their reunion.

* * *

Supper was a simple affair, taken in near silence, save for the small talk that Sansa still found painfully awkward. Even after being married to Lord Baelish for nearly three months, she still found eating her meals with him nearly as odd as when her maids called her Lady Baelish. She somehow managed to eat all of her food without being terribly nauseous, although she found that - much to her dismay - her dessert of lemon cakes was harder to keep down. Lord Baelish had been so very kind to her and surprised her with the cakes after dinner, but the gesture almost made her sick to her stomach with nervousness. Sansa worried that Petyr now had expectations that she was ready to lay with him, and she was not entirely sure that she actually _was_ ready. She was not very experienced in either thing, but she knew enough to understand that kissing and making love were vastly different activities. Judging from his behavior on the night of their wedding, her Lord Husband did not seem inclined to take her against her will, but she still thought that it could be a possibility, and that perhaps she had given him false hope which would cause him to be angry with her. It was not as if she never wanted to make love to her husband, but after all the talk of how much it would hurt, how rough men could be, the descriptions of the smells and tastes and feelings, she was very nervous and rather put-off of the whole situation. She had hoped that perhaps he would have other business to attend to that evening after they ate, or that he would stay out late enough after supper so that she might be able to feign being asleep by the time he returned. However, as Petyr spoke more and more, her hope of solitary sleeping waned.

At last, as Petyr drained the last of his wine, he looked at Sansa with that look that she knew so well. “So…” he said softly, seductively. She gulped, her bite of lemon cake feeling dry in her throat.

“Yes, My Lord?” she said, unable to keep a hint of nervousness out of her voice.

“Petyr,” he said softly, but firmly. She swallowed.

“Petyr,” she repeated back, perhaps a bit too quickly as she set down her lemon cake. Not realizing how her actions looked, she popped her fingers into her mouth one by one, licking the stickiness of the cakes off of her fingers. He leaned back in his seat, watching her as he rested his elbow on the arm of his chair, thoughtfully stroking his beard. She hated that beard. It reminded her that he was no young knight, and it seemed so much like it belonged on Littlefinger’s face, and Littlefinger was _not_ her husband. Perhaps, when he was not going to be cross with her, she would ask him to shave it off. He seemed inclined to do nearly anything for her - surely shaving was not too bizarre of a request.

“Say it again,” he commanded gently. She felt her heart leap into her throat. Wetting her lips, she stared down at her half-eaten lemon cake.

“Petyr,” she repeated in a hushed tone.

“Again.”

“Petyr,” she said again, more firmly this time, cheeks flushing. He observed her silently for a few moments, and she could feel sweat accumulating on the back of her neck.

“Come here, sweetling,” he said, patting his leg. She felt a flare of irritation at that. _He's talking to me as if I were a child again..._ Silently, she stared at his leg, eyes wandering to his crotch briefly before she decided to focus on his knee. She did not want to think about where her evening was headed. _Perhaps that’s the key,_ she thought. _Just pretend that you’re somewhere else._ Hesitating for a few moments more and trying desperately to figure out what to say to him, she finally rose from her chair and moved around the table to him. She slowly sat down, holding his gaze as he stared at her with great intensity. He did not seem so scrawny anymore, and the strong hand that he laid on her lower back was both thrilling and terrifying. She wiggled nervously on his leg, trying to make herself comfortable, an action which only caused Petyr to smirk in smug satisfaction. “Comfortable?” he asked, and Sansa flushed, perching awkwardly on his leg in such a way that most of her weight was on her legs. Without warning, he grabbed her by the hips and moved her fully onto his lap, cradling her back in one arm, placing his other hand on her lower thigh. “How about now?” he purred, his mouth close enough to ear that she could feel his breath on her cheek. She blushed, wiggling again. She found his need for control mildly irritating, but she said nothing.

“Yes, I suppose so,” she said.

“Good,” he whispered, before placing his mouth fully on her neck. She immediately felt a shiver run down her spine and warmth gushing in her womb, and she let out a surprised noise. His lips, tongue and teeth worked their way across her neck, her ear, her collarbone, and while her pleasure bloomed, she could feel that sensation of anxiousness heightening as well. As she felt his hand start to wander up her thigh, she abruptly shoved him away with both hands, nearly depositing herself on the floor in the process. Petyr held her securely around the waist however, preventing her from falling, although he looked thoroughly bewildered by her sudden shove.

“I’m not ready,” she said all at once, staring him full in the face. He looked surprised, his brow furrowed. “I mean, I’m not ready to have my maidenhood taken yet. I’ve never been with a man before, and before you I’d only ever kissed His Grace, and I - I guess - what I mean to say is… I have no idea what to do.” Her words stumbled past her lips rapidly and carelessly, and she saw understanding dawn on her husband’s face as she spoke.

“You are not ready to make love to me,” he said plainly, quirking an eyebrow. She blushed, wetting her lips.

“No - well - yes - well... not exactly yet, but I mean… if you were to pleasure _me_ …” she trailed off, cheeks bright red at her unexpected and bold statement. _Did_ I _say that?_ “You know, perhaps… we could work our way up to that? I mean, up to making love.” As she spoke those words however, he grinned wickedly, and the man that she knew as Littlefinger was written all over his face. For some reason, however, she did not find him to be unwelcome this time.

 _“Get on the table,”_ he said. Smiling nervously at him, she complied. All at once, she felt much less apprehensive about the whole ordeal, and marriage to him did not seem so bad anymore.

 


End file.
